In Darkest Night
by Evil Cowplant
Summary: Following a grisly assassination, the public is demanding answers. Sometimes, the truth will only cause us more misery.
1. It's a Dream Come True

So much for that whole "Finish one story before you start another, idiot!" promise that I (sort of) made to myself. I've written about five different chapters of this one, and now that I have more time to work on "Suggestions", the next chapter of that will be coming soon.

**Chapter 2 comes tomorrow, because suspense is oh so much fun.**

Nathan Templeton ran a finger along the edge of the large wooden desk. It was definitely bigger than he remembered, but not as crisp and official looking. The intricate carvings blurred together into an incomprehensible illusion that forced him to turn away.

Now it was the pictures that haunted him: Rebecca at age ten in a swimsuit, running away from the camera; Horace at age five wearing a tie decorated with trucks, grinning at the camera and loving the attention; a baby Amy, asleep in Rod's arms; and all three of the kids in childish Halloween costumes.

Nathan's eyebrows creased concernedly and he treaded slowly the two feet between him and the plush swivel chair. As he sat down cautiously, an eerie feeling crept over his body. He had sat here before, in this same position, but Nate had savored the moment and had experienced a thrill in being the most powerful man in the world, if even for only a day. This scene was anything but similar.

A sense of awe overcame him as he settled back. The leather felt cold against his neck. Here he was. Nathan Everett Templeton, President of the United States. This was his Oval Office, and he was here to stay.


	2. Watch Yourself

**The chapters are so much longer on paper. Chapter 1 wasn't supposed to be quite so short… but… I guess that's okay for the introductory chapter.**

A tall figure appeared in the doorway. "I know I've said the same thing before, but something tells me that I need to say it to you again," it said. "Watch yourself."

Nathan ignored the remark. "Hope you and the kids are holding up."

"Not with you behind that desk."

The president raised his eyebrow. "I remember the Constitution empowering me to stay."

"If I recall correctly, Nathan, it empowered Mackenzie to stay when she was next in line. Just now you're honoring it?" Rod Calloway spat. "This country deserves better than you." He turned on his heel and stalked out of the office.

_This country deserves Mac._

Rod walked slowly through the Residence, unable to fully comprehend the situation. _What now?_ he thought bitterly.

His only son's voice jolted him out of his thoughts. "Dad?" Horace ventured uneasily. "I can't find Amy."

Rod's eyes widened. "Have you looked everywhere? In her room?"

"Under the bed, in her closet, everywhere."

"What about Becca? She helped you?"

Horace glanced awkwardly around the living room. "Er… her door was closed… I – I didn't want to disturb her… y'know how it is…"

His father glanced sternly at him. "Whatever she's doing can wait."

At the knock on her door, Rebecca stuffed the diary into a desk drawer and snatched a tissue off of the nightstand to dab at her eyes. She turned away from Horace and Rod, attempting to hide her tearstained face.

Horace instantly rushed to Becca's side. "Hey," he said comfortingly. "We can't find Amy… do you know where she is?"

She didn't answer, but only sniffled and reached for another Kleenex.

"Rebecca," said Rod, his voice rising. "The world does not revolve around you. We need to focus on finding your sister. Amy is _missing._"

"And Mom is _dead!_" shouted Horace. His twin burst into tears.

As he looked down at his heartbroken teenaged kids, the former First Gentleman softened. "I'll check the kitchens. Horace, maybe you should scour downstairs some," he said, heading towards the door. "We don't have much time. And Rebecca," Rod looked at his solemn daughter. "I expect your help."

After her dad and Horace exited what once her private sanctuary and safe haven, Becca heaved herself off of the bed and trooped dejectedly into the hallway. She wasn't sure how she was supposed to be feeling… depressed? Well, obviously. Angry? Gee, when your mother is brutally murdered, one doesn't forgive easily. Rebecca felt both of these feelings, but they were overpowered by helplessness and fear. She wanted answers. She _needed_ to know exactly what had happened and what was yet to come. Most of all… would they come after her next?


	3. Into the Closet

Disclaimer:_ I do not own Commander in Chief_

Rebecca sighed and felt a tear leak from her eye. Instead of pausing to wipe it away, taking a moment to recuperate, and continuing the dreary trek down the hall, she let it escape and drip down her neck. The week's tragic events had taught her something: life was too short for waterproof mascara.

She had never considered herself much of a philosopher, but standing there solemnly in the deserted corridor of the most prominent home in the nation, Rebecca found herself pondering the meaning of life. If every human being was to die one way or another before they could turn 150, what was the point in them being there anyway? If people were the cause of the world's environmental issues, why were they here in the first place? What was the purpose of the Secret Service if someone had found other methods of killing the president?

Becca could understand why her remaining parent was worked up about the temporary absence of his youngest daughter. She _was_ safe and sound, though, and it wasn't as if Amy had traipsed out of the White House and had gotten mutilated beyond recognition. Rebecca definitely thought her dad was overreacting. Besides, it wasn't like she couldn't already figure out where her little sister was.

If there was one thing a female president could never show (besides her cleavage), it was any sign of weakness. Becca knew that if the country saw her mother display it, that was only going to prove that the world didn't need to see a "weak, indecisive woman" running the country. That was precisely the reason why Rebecca had never told a soul of the discovery she made that fateful night in October three years previous. It could, however, lead her to Amy.

**October 2012**

Grandpa Michael had never exactly been an important fixture in Becca's life. The only times she ever really saw him was at the occasional Christmas, every Thanksgiving, and once, Easter. That was her explanation to why she was the only family member at Michael Allen's funeral not conveying emotion… even Horace (the "tough guy") had to excuse himself during the burial.

After the ceremony and procession were done, the entire funeral party had converged at Grandma Kate's drafty old house. Mac called it "cute", Rod called it "cozy", and Horace referred to it as "classic", but Rebecca just thought of it as "cramped", "creaky", and "claustrophobia-inducing". The linoleum in the kitchen was ripped out where someone had attempted to forcefully drag a table across it; a long, horror-movie crack crept diagonally across the window in the downstairs bathroom; a mysterious stain lurked directly above the TV in the den. She had seen the old pictures. Becca knew that it used to be a charming and spacious family home. However, ever since Michael had been diagnosed, Kate seemed to let everything fall into disarray. Naturally a packrat, she had allowed useless crap to accumulate in every spare inch of the house. When something was in dire need of a repair, it was ignored.

Rebecca found herself perched on the second-highest step of the front staircase, observing the festivities from above. She was irritated to no end by the incessant questions: The small children badgered her with "Are you gonna live in the White House?" "Does your mom know George Bush?" and "My parents are Democrats, but they're still gonna vote for your mom!" The equally annoying distant relatives and family friends were slightly more eloquent: "We couldn't be happier for your mother! Hand-picked by Teddy Bridges himself… she must be elated!"

Um, guys? Her father just _died._ Somehow elation doesn't quite tie into that.

Grandpa Michael wasn't a hermit, but he certainly didn't have as many close friends or relatives as the throng that had packed into his house. There were countless cousins, colleagues, book club friends, fellow golfers, distant relations, and high school buddies milling about. Rebecca only recognized about ten people, and guessed that even Kate didn't know the names of half of these so-called "guests".

It was no secret why the turnout was huge. All of the invitees, it seemed, had arrived, and all were anxious to be reunited with… Mac. Duh. Who doesn't want to meet the front-running vice presidential candidate? Granted, Mom hadn't ever met most of these guests in her life, but as a naturally charismatic person she greeted each one individually. ("Nice to see you again too… Stephen, is it? Ah, Henry. Same difference.") Rebecca was forced to endurethis sort of treatment as well. If this was what life as the vice president's daughter was to be like for the next two years… screw it. She wanted out.

And found herself at the top of the stairs.

She watched as Mackenzie politely ended an awkward conversation with a hugely pregnant polka-dot clad blonde and weaved her way through the crowd. Rebecca panicked as she realized that her mom was heading _straight towards her_. The last thing she wanted to do was end up in a one-sided conversation initiated by her mother.

To Becca's surprise and relief, Mackenzie slogged up the stairs with poise, patted her daughter's hair affectionately (albeit absentmindedly), and continued walking. _Huh?_ Scooting herself up a step, Rebecca craned her neck into the darkened hallway, only to see Mom's heels disappear through a door at the end of of it. She knew from being in this house for over two hours that the closest bathroom was within spitting distance of where she was sitting … and of course, Becca knew that Mac hadn't touched a morsel of food that entire day.

So, naturally, she followed.

Apparently Mackenzie hadn't turned on a light when she had entered. Rebecca softly slid herself into the room after opening the door a hair wider. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. This was the part of the horror movie where the ghost of her dead grandfather would burst through the wall and the light would magically turn on and then she would find the bloody body of her mother on the floor and then Michael's face would come closer and he'd take and his knife and then before she could blink he'd…

Becca blinked fervently and shivered.

The pale moonlight streaming in through the gauzy curtains helped her eyes adjust to the dim darkness. She could make out the shape of the bed, a wide armoire, and dark, eerie archway… oh, there _was _a bathroom beyond in here. However, the door was open and the inside was dark. That was when Rebecca heard someone exhaling somewhere in the netherworld beyond the arch.

She edged softly closer. In the midnight shadows she could barely make out the faint silhouette of Mackenzie standing solemnly at the entrance to Michael's closet. Just… standing there, staring inside, completely still. No tears, no murmurs, no movement.

What. The. Heck?

Silently praying that the squeaky door would magically fix itself before Rebecca reached it, she scrambled towards the exit and skidaddled her tail out of there. What in the world was Mom doing in the closet? Praying? Hallucinating? Smelling Michael's clothes? Performing an exorcism? Or, perhaps, she was simply attempting to obtain a final relic of the parent she had tragically lost.

**X**

"Amy?"

Becca heard the young girl's sobs before her eyes had the chance to adjust. The eerie stillness of the presidential closet contrasted sharply with her sister's shaking form huddled in the corner.

Despite the gloomy situation, Rebecca silently congratulated herself for finding the "missing" child so effortlessly and quickly. She crouched down and put her arm comfortingly around Amy's shoulders. "Why are you in…" she started, but the words became tangled in her throat. No use in chastising an inconsolable child. "Why didn't you turn on the light?"

"I c-can't bel-iev-ve M-m-mom's d-de-," Shallow intakes of breath, more sobbing. "Her clothes… th-they're gone…"

Becca nodded sadly. The swearing in of President Templeton had been rushed and frenzied, and now that it was time for him to move into the residence, all of the Calloways' belongings had been packed up. All that remained was the original White House furniture. Just like the last time they had moved, everything was to be shipped during the funeral.

The deceased was dear to Becca's heart, unlike before. This time around, the death of a great leader was entirely unexpected. No prelude, no illness, no baited breath or anxious preparation.

When Teddy Bridges had died, his body had been recognizable and available. An unnecessary autopsy had been conducted. A formal death certificate had been printed, although the proof was plain as day. With the dead President of the United States laid out before the assembled guests, the act was simply ceremonial. What had been once been a living, breathing man was fully intact and now buried six feet under an exclusive commemorative statue at the Arlington Cemetery.

With Mackenzie Allen's terrible murder, there was no such luck. No answers. No clues. No body.

Ashes… to ashes. Too many to determine that night's events.


End file.
